


Mine Is The Heart I Will Save

by cyranothe2nd



Series: Mine Is The Heart I Will Save [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for ya, Bats. I’d give it all up if you’d just bend a little.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine Is The Heart I Will Save

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Knight versus Anarchy challenge, round 18, prompt "calling card." Betaed by 1Badjoke.   
> Disclaimer: This work is based on characters and concepts created and owned by DC Comics, Warner Bros. and other entities and corporations. No money is being made and no copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: The title of this fic comes from _Did We Not Choose Each Other_ by Sophie B. Hawkins.

 

**Calling /ˈkɔːlɪŋ/: 1. v, The action of emitting a loud voice; crying, shouting, proclaiming.**

 

 

    “Oooooh, Bats,” cried a carrying voice. Bruce winced. “Looks like you got yourself into a little trouble here.” A painted face appeared over the edge of the fire escape, followed by the rest of a painfully thin, purple-clad body.

    _Shit,_ Bruce thought tiredly, flexing his arms against the wire binding him. Of course Joker would find him at the absolutely most embarrassing moment of his life. Of course he would.

    It was easy for Bruce to forget that he hadn’t been doing this for very long. Being Batman felt so natural to him that it was easy to forget that it had been less than a year since he had first donned the suit. Thus, mistakes were bound to happen.

    Earlier that evening, Lucius has given Bruce a new toy—a gun that shot a sticky web that was meant to restrain criminals until the police arrived to pick them up. Bruce has been eager to try it out. Unfortunately, the gun’s cartridge had leaked, spilling viscous fluid all over his left side and rendering his cape useless. Which would not have been so bad if he hadn’t discovered this _after_ he’d leapt off a condemned high rise in pursuit of a mugger. He’d managed to save himself by shooting a grappling hook into the side of the building and climbing up. Unfortunately, the rappelling wire was completely covered in sticky fluid and, by the time he’d levered himself over the edge of the roof, it was stuck to _him_. More correctly, he was completely tangled in wire covered in a substance just about as tenacious as super glue, with no way to reach his belt and retrieve a knife to free himself.

    So…yeah. Not the best time for Joker to show up.

    Joker meandered across the rooftop, hands fluttering between smoothing his jacket front and fingering the knives in his pockets. Bruce watched him closely, still resolutely struggling against the wire. Joker stopped a few yards away and grinned evilly at Bruce.

    “Ooh, ooh, ooh, looks like Bats had a little accident,” he singsonged, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

    Bruce leveled a poisonous glare at him.

    “Aw, Bats, don’t look at me that way,” Joker waved a finger in front of his face. Bruce entertained a brief and satisfying fantasy about snapping it off. “I’m beginning to think you don’t want my help.”

    Bruce snorted. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know about Joker conception of _help_. “Take a step closer to me and I will kick you in the face,” Bruce warned. He tensed his arms, looking for any slack at all in the wire, never taking his eyes off Joker.

    Joker took a deliberate step closer, staying just out of the range of Bruce’s legs. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes glittering eerily against black greasepaint. He leaned forward, his stooped posture and level stare reminding Bruce of a hyena. It was unsettling the way Joker just went still, his predator gaze locked on Bruce’s eyes, trapping him as surely as the tangling wire. Bruce felt something twist in his stomach.

    Then there was an explosion of movement and he was on Bruce, his body close but not touching, one arm braced on the wall behind Bruce’s head and the other tenderly cradling Bruce’s exposed cheek. Bruce felt the tickle of something cold and realized Joker was holding a knife to his lips.

    “I wouldn’t usually stick around to chat but, since I’ve got ya all tied up…” Joker smirked, his Glasgow grin stretching wide. His fingers tightened, forcing the knife between Bruce’s lips.

    “I enjoy this little game of ours, Bats, I do. I inject a little chaos into this city and you come pound my face in and cart me off to Arkham,” Joker said. His light tone was at odds with his serious gaze, boring into Bruce’s. Bruce felt the knife slip, nicking his lower lip.

    “Oops,” Joker said with a frown, removing the knife from Bruce’s mouth and stashing it back into his pocket. He reached forward and swiped at the blood on Bruce’s chin with his fingertip, then pulled back and sucked the digit into his mouth. An obscene moan escaped him at the taste of Bruce’s blood.

    A shiver ran through Bruce. He watched in fascination as Joker pulled his finger back out of his ruined mouth and ran his tongue up its length. The Joker’s hands were bare, Bruce thought ludicrously, eyes following the movement of Joker’s tongue as it laved his index finger. He caught Joker’s amused look and shook himself.

    Joker’s smirk was knowing. “But it gets old after a while, ya know?” he continued. “So how ‘bout we try something more compli _cat_ ed.”

    Joker lunged forward and Bruce braced himself for a blow that never came. And then Joker was kissing him and it was nothing like Bruce had imagined. Especially because he had not realized he’d imagined it until this very second. Joker’s mouth was sure and knowing against his own, his tongue coaxing instead of dominating. Bruce felt his body respond, felt himself melting into the slow slide of Joker’s lips against his and Joker’s soft breath against his cheek. He fought against it, resolutely not moving his mouth against Joker’s but Joker seemed to sense his resistance and deepened the kiss. Suddenly, Bruce found himself kissing back, his tongue twining around Joker, wishing that his hands were free so that he could clutch the clown closer. At the movement of Bruce’s mouth against his, Joker moaned lowly and his free hand came back to trail teasingly against Bruce’s exposed cheek, nails scratching lightly. Bruce felt the skin around his nicked lip stretch and split, a drop of blood sliding into the kiss and the taste of it mixed with the clove and greasepaint taste of Joker brought Bruce abruptly down to earth.

    He wrenched his head to the side, ending the kiss. He felt Joker’s panting breath flaring against the side of his face for a long moment before the clown leaned back.

    “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for ya, Bats. I’d give it all up if you’d _bend_ a little.”

    Bruce couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear the stark honesty in Joker’s voice. Joker bent forward again and switched on the emergency signal on Bruce’s belt.

    He caught Bruce’s eye. “Think about it,” Joker said quietly and disappeared into the night.

 

 

**Card /kɑːd/: 1. n, One of a ‘pack’ or set of small oblong pieces of pasteboard, used in playing games of chance, or chance and skill combined.**

 

 

    The weeks following the _heh_ little tete-a-tete on the rooftop has been quiet. Too quiet, in Joker’s opinion. It felt _weird_ not be planning anything. No, not planning. He wasn’t a schemer. Not like darling Bats, with all his intentions and strategies and careful rules. No. Joker didn’t plan. Joker went with the flow. He _felt_ things.

    That’s what the shrinks at Arkham never really understood. All the white coats who diagnosed him with arcane labels like _psychopathic personality disorder_. They assumed he couldn’t feel when really he felt too much, felt everything all the time. It was why he hated humanity—because they _didn’t_. They lived their venal little lives, running around stabbing each other in the back to get ahead, scrambling and clawing to get that extra dollar or that promotion and that new hot piece of ass.

    All people were psychopaths underneath.

    Joker understood this and accepted it. Batman couldn’t.

    It was one of the things Joker found so fascinating about him. The level of self-delusion which Bats was capable of was astounding. He truly believed that people were good, that they would do the right and noble thing because it was right and noble. He truly believed he wasn’t alone.

    And, as amusing as it was to watch Bats flounder against the depravity of his precious city, Joker couldn’t bear it when Bats directed that self-delusion at _them_ —at Bats and him. He and the Batman were meant to be. Joker had felt it from the moment that he’d met the dark-clad Knight, felt a pulling in his chest that urged him to challenge, to fight, to tear and touch and hold.

    He’d made it clear. He’d told the Bat up on the rooftop--dangling by his feet and all the blood rushing to his head and making bright colors erupt in his vision--exactly what he felt.

    Only Bats hadn’t responded the way he was supposed to.

    Joker knew Bats felt it; he **knew** he did. And he’d be damned if he was going to let Bats let him down.

    “Boss, what’re we up to tonight?” One of the minions asked. The van had stopped. Joker stepped out, leaving his boys sitting inside, awaiting instructions. It was really too bad. Good lackeys were hard to find. But he had to make certain sacrifices for his Bats.

    “Nothing tonight, boys,” Joker said grandiosely. “In fact,” he pulled out a flash-grenade from his pocket and tossed it casually into their midst. “Nothing for awhile.”

    The grenade did its work, knocking most of them unconscious. Joker took care of the ones that weren’t and quickly trussed everyone up, handcuffing each man’s arm to the ankle of the man nearest him. He donned a pair of gloves and pinned one of his playing cards carefully to each of their shirts. Then he drove the vanful to Gordon’s house and left them.

    The sun was setting by the time he arrived at his newest bolthole in the Narrows. He was sure that darling Bats had found out about his little joke by now. As well as the punchline. He’d be good and furious.

    Time to get dressed up and go out to play.

 

 

**Calling /ˈkɔːlɪŋ/: 2. n, The inward feeling or conviction of a divine call; the strong impulse to any course of action as the right thing to do.**

 

 

    “Thought about my offer?”

    Bruce grunted as Joker’s foot connected with his midsection. He danced back, avoiding the vicious uppercut that followed it, then snapped his arm down and blocked a second kick.

    “Offer?”

    Joker fell back and pulled out a knife, throwing it straight at Bruce’s face. Bruce deflected it with a gauntlet and dove forward, managing a punch to Joker’s cheek and a knee to his ribs before the slippery bastard retreated a few feet. He straightened from his hyena lean.

    “Don’t play dumb, Bats. It doesn’t suit you,” he said.

    Bruce did not relax out of his fighting stance. The whole thing was getting out of hand. Gordon had called him today, after his officers had found a van full of half a dozen wanted criminals known to work for Joker, all with Joker cards pinned to their chests. The cards had a jumble of letters on them that, when decoded, said: _Send Bats for the antidote._

    The criminals had been poisoned—all of them.

    Not criminals, Bruce reminded himself for the dozenth time. Victims. Most of them culled from Arkham and captivated by Joker’s charisma.

    “You think poisoning your dupes proves something to me?”

    “Doesn’t it?”

    Bruce felt his jaw tighten. “Only that you belong in Arkham right next to them.”

    The Joker made a fugue of frustrated gestures: hands smoothing down his jacket lapels, and then flinging out dramatically as he heaved a sigh, a fierce frown creasing his face before it was finally overtaken by a sly look.

    “You want to save them?” Joker voice dropped into a throaty purr. “You know what you have to do.”

    “Stop this, clown!” Bruce growled. “What are you trying to pull here? You can’t possibly think I’d believe that you’d give up killing innocent people to have some kind of—of _relationship_ with me,” Bruce flung the words out in disgust.

    Bruce could easily believe that Joker wanted to discomfit him or to humiliate him—in hindsight he realized that that’s what that kiss must have really been about--but he wouldn’t believe for one second that Joker would give up his whole twisted mission just to sleep with the Batman. It was insane.

    “Ya know,” Joker rolled his eyes, “I believe I am actually going to have to convince you.”

    He moved before Bruce could react, surging forward and pushing Bruce into the brick wall behind. His lips were on Bruce’s and this time, the kiss was _exactly_ like Bruce had imagined it, all fury and heat and intensity. Joker’s teeth bit into Bruce’s lower lip, drawing blood. Bruce’s hands fisted Joker’s hair, twisting painfully only to hear the slighter man moan with pleasure and shiver against him. Bruce broke the kiss and punched Joker in the face, hard.

    “You’re sick,” he rasped, enraged at how shaky and breathless his voice sounded.

    “We both are,” Joker rejoined, touching the side of his face and working his jaw back and forth experimentally. “Difference is that I can admit it.”

    Bruce shook his head. “You don’t know me,” he spat. He pulled a batarang from his belt. “I am nothing like you.” He flung the batarang at Joker but the clown jumped back, avoiding it.

    “Touched a nerve, huh?” He made a moue of faux innocence. “Fine. Believe what you want. Question is, will surrender your virtue—“He leered, “—in exchange for all those not-so-innocent lives?”

    Bruce felt fury overtake him. Joker had him and he knew it. “Fuck you, you crazy bastard,” he ground out.

    Joker made a ‘as you wish’ gesture. “I was really hoping it’d be the other way around but I’ll take what I can get,” he said and then he was on Bruce again, his mouth tearing Bruce’s as his clever fingers began to remove parts of Bruce’s armor.

    “Not the cowl,” Bruce said sharply.

    Bruce knew this was sick and wrong. He knew he should cuff Joker and cart him back to Arkham. It was the right thing to do.

    But the right thing wasn’t always the best thing. That was why Bruce had become Batman in the first place, because he could do things the police couldn’t. He could work outside the law to catch the criminals that turned the city into a cesspit. He could take the blame for Gotham’s fallen knight. He could even give a piece of himself to a madman to protect the innocent.

    Joker pulled back and grinned. “Okie-dokie, Brucey,” he said and Bruce felt his hands tightening in the fabric of Joker’s jacket. “Aw, don’t look like that. I’ve known for _ages_ and I haven’t told anyone.” The clown pouted. “I wouldn’t.”

    There was really nothing to say to that.

    Bruce pulled him in instead, lips brutal against painted ones, hands tearing at multiple layers of cloth until they found bare skin. He pressed his fingers into Joker’s bruised ribs and Joker arched into the touch.

    And, as Bruce pushed Joker face-forward against the brick wall and hauled down his pants, he reflected that it wasn’t about desire. It was about fulfilling his calling.

 

 

**Card /kɑːd/: 2. n, mod. slang. applied to a person, indicating some eccentricity or peculiarity. Also without adjective: a ‘character’, an ‘original’; a clever, audacious, etc., person.**

 

 

    “What the hell are you doing?” The dulcet tones of an enraged Bat echoed through the alley.

    “Having tea and crumpets,” Joker said, hefting the sack of stolen jewelry across his shoulder. “You?”

    “Don’t play games with me, clown.” Bats’ lips were pinched in fury. Joker felt a strong desire to kiss that look off his face. He dropped the sack and sidled closer.

    The Bat held up a warding hand. “You robbed a store tonight. The security guard is in the hospital.”

    “Aaaand?”

    “And you promised me this wouldn’t happen anymore if I—“ Bats cut off, obviously unwilling to name what they has been doing for the past several months.

    Joker held up a finger. “Ah-ah, Bats. I promised I wouldn’t _kill_ anyone. And I have held completely and totally to my word, haven’t I?” Joker grimaced. “While you have not.”

    “What is that supposed to mean? I’ve done exactly what you wanted.”

    “No. Nonononono Brucey, you haven’t.”

    It was true. Joker had thought the change in their re _lation_ ship would soften Bruce up but instead their encounters were brief and brutal. Not that Joker minded all that much. The pain was nothing to him but he was tired of watching Bruce choke on his own misery. He wanted _in_.

    “I asked you to bend. But you aren’t bending; you’re breaking,” he said.

    “I bet that just thrills you, doesn’t it? The thought that this is killing me,” Batman rasped.

    “No,” Joker said seriously. “It really doesn’t.” He reached out but didn’t touch. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

    Bruce snorted. He looked as brittle as glass. “What, you’re going to help me? You’re crazy. You can’t even help yourself.”

    Joker felt a surge of irritation. “I am _not_ crazy. I just see things that people don’t want to see.” He stepped forward suddenly, getting into Bats’ personal space. “I see _you._ You need this. You need _me_. But you can’t admit it, can’t even live with the thought that you could let me in that close. But I know you, Bats. I know who you are inside. You need this just as much as I do.”

    Batman pushed him away, hard. Joker stumbled back, knocking his head into the brick behind him and tasting blood. He grinned cheekily at the other man, knowing it would push him over the edge and sure enough, Bats flew at him, all fury and pounding fist and then pounding…other things.

    It wasn’t what he wanted, not by a long shot. But Joker would take what he could get.

 

 

**Calling /ˈkɔːlɪŋ/: 3. v, The summoning cry of an animal**

 

 

    “Bats? Hey, Bats?” Joker’s voice spoke from Bruce’s chest.

    “Mmmm?”

    Bruce’s mind was still humming in the after effects of orgasm. He couldn’t quite muster up the capacity for speech. Couldn’t really understand how Joker could; but then again, he was always doing impossible things.

    “Who was I just then?”

    The question made no sense and Bruce found his voice to ask, “What?”

    “Just then. I wasn’t me. You wouldn’t have been that nice for me. So who was I?”

    It took Bruce a long time to make sense of those words and, once he did, he felt his body tense up. His hand—which has been unconsciously carding through Joker’s hair—froze.

    The truth was, Bruce hadn’t been thinking of anyone else.

    When they has started this…affair, it has been about struggles for dominance, an extension of their fights—rage pouring out of Bruce and into Joker’s tight body and the man beneath him alternately laughing and urging him on. Fucking your nemesis in back alleys and rooftops was not something Bruce was proud of but it was understandable.

    This was not.

    They had met at a ratty hotel several blocks from Wayne Tower and Bruce had wordlessly taken Joker’s hand and led him to the bed. Bruce had gone slowly, undressing Joker and savoring his reactions as he touched and stroked and kissed every inch of the clown’s pale skin. He’d refused to be rushed by Joker’s demands, inching inside and setting a deliciously languorous pace that had set them both alight. And now, he lay on top of the faded bedspread with his arms around Joker like they were lovers.

    Like this was something real instead of something sick and twisted and wrong.

    Bruce didn’t want it. He didn’t want to need Joker the way he did. He didn’t want to admit that one touch from the man lit him up like a fucking Christmas tree. He didn’t want to admit that Joker knew him far better than any living person with the exception of Alfred.

    The awareness—the constant edgy torment of knowing that he wanted the clown—was slowly eating away at him and Bruce knew that something had to give or it would consume him.

    “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna say. I was just wonderin’,” Joker’s voice sounded slow and a little strung out from sex.

    It hit Bruce like a tidal wave, ripping at his mind, shredding his heart. He had just made love to the Joker. And he’d wanted it. God help him, he wanted to do it again.

    Bruce released the other man and rolled off the bed, began to dress.

    “Rachel,” he finally said. “I was thinking about Rachel.”

 

 

**Card /kɑːd/: 3. v, To comb, distangle or collect together**

 

 

    “You know,” Joker said conversationally. “This is a pretty nice place. Didn’t have the time to ah…take it in properly last time I was here.”

    “Don’t touch anything,” Bruce told him sourly. Big guy had been angry ever since Joker’d shown up at his front door.

    Some people just couldn’t relax.

    Joker reached out and tipped over a blown glass vase, grinning as it made a satisfying crash on the marble floor. Bruce wrenched open a door and stepped aside, gesturing Joker in. Joker ambled past him and made himself at home in a leather wing-back chair, leaning against one armrest with his legs dangling over the other side. Bats heaved a sigh.

    “Why are you here?” he asked tiredly.

    Joker shrugged. “Bored.” He sank lower into the chair and reached behind him without turning, scooping up a book from the stack he’d seen sitting on the low side table and leafing through it. “Thought you wouldn’t want me being bored out there.” He gestured with the book towards the Gotham skyline, visible through a wide picture window.

    “And so you thought you’d come here and annoy me?”

    Joker tossed the book behind his chair and reached for another. Bats hand gripped his wrist, arresting the movement. Joker looked up at him and deliberately licked his lips.

    “You are incorrigible, you know that?”

    Joker was fairly certain Bruce hadn’t meant the words to come out so fond. He felt his grin slide into something more honest.

    “Yeah, but you love me,” he teased. He was pushing, he knew. And sure enough, the slight smile that has been playing around Bruce’s mouth dropped off and Bruce let go of his wrist, stepping back. Joker rolled his eyes.

    “Denial, thy name is Batman,” he said.

    Bruce strode over and pulled him bodily from the chair. “Get out,” he rasped in his Batman voice, hauling Joker towards the door.

    “Aw come on, Bats, don’t be like that.” Joker squirmed in his grip. “I was just jokin’. Let me stay.”

    Bruce stopped, mostly because Joker had a death grip on the door jam. He looked at Joker, his blue eyes assessing before he finally relented. “Only for a few hours,” he said, releasing him. “Alfred will be back in the morning and I don’t want you here.”

    “Ooooh, who’s that? You’re other boyfriend?”

    Bats closed his eyes, looking sincerely sorry that he’d allowed Joker to stay. “My butler. And you are not my boyfriend.”

    “Tell yourself, Bats,” Joker said, brushing past him and out into the hall. “Hey, ya got anything to eat?”

 

 

    Turned out Bats had a fully stocked kitchen. Too bad he couldn’t cook worth a damn.

    “You set the eggs on fire,” Joker said wonderingly. “I’m impressed.”

    “Oh shut up.”

    “Seriously, Bats, I thought the whole privileged rich boy thing was just an act but clearly…”

    “ _Shut. Up._ ”

    Joker just laughed and gestured Bats aside. He pulled a knife from his coat pocket and got to chopping. A few minutes later, he was sliding a veggie omelet onto a plate and pushing it in Bruce’s direction.

    “Eat up,” he said, already digging into his own.

    Bats hesitated, eying him searchingly before finally taking a bite. A carnal moan escaped his mouth. “Oh, this is really good.”

    Joker tried to keep the pleased look off his face. “I try,” he said and went back to eating.

    It was…nice to just sit next to Bats, without the other man trying to punch his lights out or angsting like a teenage girl. Normal. Which wasn’t something that Joker usually enjoyed but he liked that Bats enjoyed it.

    Joker hadn’t been lying about being bored. Truth be told, his deal with Bats was wearing on him. Not the sex part. Nononono. Bats had lightened up significantly in that regard. Sometimes he even forgot to act like he hated it.

    The problem wasn’t the sex. It was everything else.

    Everything with Bats was two steps forward and one step back. Like that night in the hotel room. Joker couldn’t act like Bats pretending he was dearly departed Rachel didn’t sting a bit. Even thought he knew it was bullshit, knew that Bats was really just scared of what he felt.

    The truth was that Joker was scared as well. What he felt for Bats was devastating and painful and terrifying as hell. He could feel himself changing, little pieces of him sliding away and others slotting into place. His dreams were filled with names and faces he didn’t remember and he no longer reached for his knife when people gave him the side-eye on the street. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d…ah, helped someone shuffle off the mortal coil. Even his games had lost their charm. All he could think about most days was where Bats was and what he was doing.

    Joker had never wanted to be close to anyone before. It was _wrong_ to fetter himself like this and, even while chafing against it, to refuse to remove the chains. To _want_ this bondage. The need to be closer, to push Bats further and to hear that he felt the same way was sometimes overwhelming.

    What happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object?

    They both surrender.

    Much later, Joker laid with his head on Bruce’s chest, greasepaint streaking Bruce’s bare skin. Bruce’s fingers carded slowly through his hair and his heartbeat thundered against his ear. Joker felt his chest tighten and his throat burn and he thought, _How fucking ridiculous to be defeated like this._

    He laughed until tears streamed down his face and refused to tell Bats why.

 

 

**Calling /ˈkɔːlɪŋ/: 4. v, The act of getting into communication with someone by telephone.**

 

 

    “Hello?” Bruce said.

    “Christ, Bats, you sound awful.”

    “How did you get this number?” Bruce sighed, closing his eyes.

    “Stole a business card outta your jacket. You really ought to be more careful,” Joker’s voice drops into a confiding whisper. “I heard there are criminals in Gotham.”

    Bruce groaned. “What do you want?”

    “Not a lot,” Joker answered. “I’m a man of simple tastes. Give me a match and I can light the world.” Bruce could almost see the expansive arm sweep that went along with the misquote and it occurred to him that he knew this man entirely too well.

    So of course Joker did something that completely surprised him. “Heard you were sick,” he said, voice suddenly serious. “I wanna come over.”

    “What? No. Definitely not!”

    “Awwww, come on Bats. I could take good care of you. Feed you soup and rub menthol on your chest. I even have a nurse’s uniform.” Joker’s voice was lascivious and Bruce felt his body respond.

    “I can’t,” he spoke as much to himself as to Joker. “I am sick. Besides, Alfred’s here. Go away and let me rest.”

    “You can rest when you’re dead,” Joker rejoined. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

 

    True to his word, Joker climbed onto Bruce’s balcony ten minutes later, tapping relentlessly on the glass of the door, even after he saw Bruce crossing the room to let him in. Bruce flung open the door and Joker grinned at his ill-humor, holding up a basket like a peace offering.

    “Is that tequila?” Bruce asked suspiciously.

    “Best thing for ya,” Joker said. “Feed a fever, drink away the flu.”

    Bruce eyed him, taking in the lean expanse of Joker’s legs revealed by the short white skirt he was wearing. It was ridiculous that he should look so tantalizing in it.

    “Try not to cause any mayhem,” he said, waving Joker inside.

    An hour later, Bruce and Joker sat companionably side-by-side on the bed, sipping tequila out of brandy snifters. Bruce had to admit that he felt marginally better.

    “You know,” Bruce said expansively. “I think your plan may be working.”

    “Me, plan?” Joker looked appalled by the very idea.

    “Don’t give me that. No one could have pulled off that whole semi-chase through downtown Gotham without a plan. Besides, that’s not what I was talking about. I mean this—“ He made a gesture that took in the two of them.

    “Bats, are you drunk?” Joker asked suspiciously.

    “Don’t be absurd. I never drink,” Bruce said and laid his cheek against Joker’s shoulder. He was feeling very tired suddenly.

    “Uh-huh. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

    Joker switched off the lights and got him under the covers, pulling the duvet up over him.

    “I like you in this uniform,” Bruce informed him. “It’s sexy.”

    Joker chuckled lowly. “I hate repeating a bit but I’ll wear it for ya again sometime.”

    Bruce closed his eyes. “What’s your name?”

    “You really are a lightweight.” Bruce opened his eyes to see Joker’s painted face wavering above him.

    “You know what I mean. Come on, tell me. You know mine.” Bruce hated the way Joker’s face looked right now, serious and a little sad. _I have often seen a smile without a Joker,_ Bruce thought ludicrously. _But a Joker without a smile?_

    Bruce reached up and smoothed a hand over Joker’s cheek. “Nevermind,” he mumbled. He dropped his hand.

    Joker hovered above him for a moment, smoothing the wrinkles out of the duvet, hands resting on Bruce’s chest before he pulled back. Bruce’s voice stopped him at the balcony door.

    “Hey, Joker?”

    “Yeah?” The man turned, his eyes glittering with reflected moonlight and Bruce felt something warm settle into his chest.

    “Stay,” he said.

 

 

**Card /kɑːd/: 4. n, A small sheet on which a letter or message may be written**

 

 

    “A-hem.”

    Joker blinked awake. A stern-faced old man stood above him. Ah, this must be the long-suffering Alfred.

    Joker stretched luxuriously and looked over at Bats, still sacked out and drooling on his pillow. There was a breakfast tray on the nightstand and Joker reached across him and scooped up two pieces of toast. He shoved one into his mouth, getting crumbs everywhere.

    “What are you doing here?”

    Joker swallowed his mouthful down and began munching on the other. “Hey, keep it down. Bats is sick, ya know.” Joker wished he was still wearing the nurse’s uniform rather than just his shorts. That would really get the old man’s goat.

    The stare didn’t let up but Alfred’s voice had lowered to a hiss when he said, “I think it is time that you leave.”

    “After I finally got an invite to stay? Not likely.” Joker finished off his toast with a large gulp of orange juice. He set the glass on the nightstand and sat up, finally looking at Alfred.

    The butler was old but he had the upright bearing and cold stare of a military man. Joker’d be willing to bet SIS or some damn thing. Leave it to Bats to have hired help with combat training.

    The old man looked from him to the sleeping Bat and back again. “How long has _this_ \--’’ He infused the word with as much scorn as possible, “—been going on?”

    “About a year.” Joker scratched his head. “You didn’t suspect?”

    Alfred sighed. His voice had softened a bit when he said, “I knew something was happening. You haven’t been up to your usual antics and Master Bruce has seemed more…relaxed lately.”

    Joker felt himself brighten at that. So it wasn’t just him that noticed. “Look, Alfie,” he said finally. “I’m not hurting him. I could even be helping--” The butler snorted. Joker ignored it for Bats’ sake. “He needs someone around who understand the darkness in him. Someone who isn’t afraid of it and won’t judge him for it.”

    “And you think you’re that person?”

    Joker shrugged. “Wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing buuut--” He held up his hands in a ‘what are ya gonna do?’ gesture.

    Alfred’s cool eyes were on him, assessing. Joker stared back, letting him know he wasn’t going to be pushed out, that he’d fight for Bats if he had to. Finally, the other man relented and stepped back.

    “Would you like some coffee?” he said, all stoic politeness but his face looked accepting. Joker chuffed out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

    “Thanks,” he said and found he meant more than just the coffee Alfred was holding out to him. The old man nodded and left.

    Joker sipped at the coffee for a long minute before meandering into the bathroom to put his face back on. He caught some movement in the mirror and watched as Bats stumbled in, looking a bit worse for wear.

    “Don’t ever let me drink again.” Bruce came up behind Joker and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in Joker’s hair.

    Joker felt his heart constrict. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Bruce’s arms tightened around him.

    Joker opened his eyes, coming to a decision. “I’ve got something for ya, Bats,” he said. Bruce released him and stepped back and for a moment Joker felt like kicking himself because he’d really wanted to stand that way with Bats forever. Ah well. Needs must and all that.

    He shuffled into the bedroom, looking around for his clothes. He found the nurse’s uniform kicked under the bed and riffled through the pockets, pulling out a piece of cardstock and a broken pencil. He hurriedly scribbled something on the paper and thrust it into Bruce’s hand.

    “What’s this?” Bruce asked, looking from it to him.

    Joker scoffed. “And you call yourself a detective.” He sat beside Bats on the bed, feeling uncomfortably exposed. Maybe this haddn’t been such a good idea. Bruce looked back down at the card, reading the two words there. His name. Well, the name the old him had had.

    “You said you wanted to know,” Joker explained.

    Bruce looked up at him, wonder and affection softening his features. Joker wanted to stop time and save that look forever. “Ja—“

    “Don’t,” Joker said sharply. “Don’t say it Bats. Just…now you know.”

    The soft look had blossomed into a full-on smile. Bruce reached out and pulled him into a kiss and Joker reflected that maybe this haddn’t been such a bad idea after all.

 


End file.
